


Across the Line

by goldenhart



Series: Across the Line [1]
Category: Hornblower - C. S. Forester
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Mutual Pining, Relationship Negotiation, Sexual Content, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-13
Updated: 2019-09-13
Packaged: 2020-10-17 14:03:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20622242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldenhart/pseuds/goldenhart
Summary: The rescue of a sloop-of-war brings unexpected consequences to the officers of theHotspur.(AKA the obligatory Only One Bed fic.)





	1. Chapter 1

That William Bush took pride in his duties as a first lieutenant was obvious to all who met him: if ever a man had been destined for the position it was him; he followed orders with ease, toiled diligently at any task that might be set for him and though he was strict with the men he was not unfair. The only criticism that might have ever been made of him was that in his attention to detail he often overlooked one thing: himself.   
  
Late October brought a fierce gale off the northwest coast of Spain, and for twenty-four hours _Hotspur_ struggled against the wind and the rain and the towering black waves that threatened to swamp her, her fished mainyard straining and cracking each time she crested a wave and began to put her bows down. It was a near thing at times, but luck and good seamanship saw her through into the grey dawn of the next day, where they saw that not all ships had been so lucky. The sloop-of-war _Resolve_ had been driven hard aground on a rocky isle not fifteen leagues south of Ferrol, wrecked by poor luck and bad judgement. Bush tried not to feel pity for the men of the _Resolve_, knowing full well that error, not weather, had brought about their doom, but as he ordered men into the boats to rescue survivors he felt a queer sense of sorrow for the ruined ship. It was a bad end for a ship, to be driven onto rocks and abandoned to await the scavengers that would come and strip her bare. Every man aboard knew it, and when the ninety-six survivors of the _Resolve_ were brought aboard the _Hotspur_ they were treated with the sort of condescending sympathy normally reserved for the eccentric and the elderly.   
  
“See that you find space for them, Mr Bush,” said Hornblower, still slightly green from the effects of sea-sickness. Bush nodded.   
  
“Aye aye, sir,” he said. As first lieutenant, it was Bush’s duty to arrange sleeping quarters for the men, and unusual circumstances were no excuse for negligence. “I will find some way of making it work, sir,” he said, sensing a worried look on Hornblower’s face. _Hotspur_ was a small sloop and life aboard was cramped already. With _Hotspur’s_ complement and the men of the _Resolve_ there would be nearly two hundred men aboard.   
  
“See that you do,” Hornblower said weakly, and disappeared back to his cabin as quickly as he dared, pressing his handkerchief to his mouth. Bush tried not to smile at his friend’s misery; tried, and failed. A certain necessary distance had come about between them with Hornblower’s promotion, distance that was essential for the discipline of a ship. A weak-willed captain might seek out friendship with his officers, only to be manipulated by them, and Bush admired Hornblower for not seeking out familiarity with his men. Yet in his weaker moments Bush found himself missing the friendship they’d shared back on the _Renown_, the friendship that had driven Hornblower to come to Bush’s sickbed with a basket of fruit, the friendship that had miraculously been restored to them that day in Portsmouth. With each passing day it became more and more difficult to equate the friend Bush had known with the man he served under, and it was occasionally gratifying to be reminded that Hornblower, in spite of his best efforts, was still the same man Bush had known all those years ago.   
  
But Bush had never been one for melancholic introspection, and so he turned his attention away from his thoughts and towards the problem before him. It was no easy task to arrange quarters for almost two hundred men, and it was a task that taxed his administrative skills to the full. He assigned his own cabin for the use of the captain and first officer of the _Resolve_, packed the midshipmen two to a cot in their berth, and found every spare hammock aboard to assign to the new men. Warrant officers and petty officers from both ships were grouped together, and the hammocks of the _Resolves_ were distributed amongst the hammocks of the _Hotspurs_ so that they might not form factions and start quarrelling. By the mid-afternoon watch he had puzzled out a strict and ordered system of bed-sharing, shift-rotation, and hammock arrangement that left no man without a place to sleep. Some of the _Resolve’s_ men made noises of complaint at being treated like cattle, but one look from Bush was enough to silence them. Satisfied, he made his report to Hornblower and then continued about his duties of ensuring _Hotspur_ was ready for action, effecting repairs where she had been damaged during the storm, slinging up the old mainyard brought over from the _Resolve_, and working with the _Resolve’s_ first lieutenant in organising the men so that they would be able to fight amidst the confusion of having twice their number on board.   
  
It was not until the first dogwatch, sitting around the gunroom table packed as tight as weevils in a biscuit, that Bush realised his mistake: in the busyness of the day he had neglected sleeping arrangements for himself and now had nowhere to rest. He could not return to his own cabin, now occupied by the officers of the _Resolve_, nor did he wish to bunk with the midshipmen. Sleeping with the rest of the men was out of the question for a commissioned officer: the only possible course of action would be to conceal himself in the cable tiers, and pray that no one found him there. He swore under his breath at his foolishness and pushed his dinner away, rising to his feet and going off in search of a clean, spare hammock.  
  
He did not find one; he had been thorough in his duty, and almost every hammock was now in someone’s possession — the only two spare hammocks he found were mildewed beyond repair and so rank not even Bush, a man who had served aboard ships crammed with hundreds of unwashed men since the age of twelve, could stand the stench. It would not do. Exhausted, frustrated, he made his peace with his fate, informed the officer of the watch where he was to be found in an emergency and swore the man to silence using a number of colourful threats, and retired to a quiet spot in the cable tier. He had only his oilskin for his blanket and a spare shirt for a pillow; he had even forgotten to find himself those basic necessities.  
  
It was colder than he’d expected down in the lower deck. The gundeck was a furnace, the heat of so many bodies packed together making the temperature almost unbearable, but down below the waterline it was cold and slightly damp. The deck was hard, solid oak, not the sort of place a man could bed down comfortable, and the squeaking and scuttering of rats set Bush’s teeth on edge. He hated rats, and he shivered at the thought of one running over him as he slept. He pulled his oilskin over his head and thought longingly of his warm bed, now occupied by that halfwit of a captain who’d run his own ship aground. He thought of Hornblower, asleep in bed two decks above, and cursed his own stupidity. His captain could never find out his error. Hornblower had taken a chance in choosing Bush as his first officer — Bush, who had only ever been a junior lieutenant — and Bush would not disappoint him. He remembered the day Hornblower had asked him to be first lieutenant, how shyly he’d asked and how grateful he’d been when Bush had accepted, shaking Bush’s hand over and over, as if he couldn’t believe Bush would say yes. Impossibly, such a display of emotion had only further endeared Hornblower to Bush, and the memory was a cherished one.   
  
Bush would not have Hornblower think less of him. He would not have Hornblower find out his foolish mistake.  
  
He slept badly and awoke after barely two hours of sleep to move to the gunroom, where he feigned alertness for another two hours until he was summoned, bleary-eyed and blinking, to the quarterdeck for the middle watch. It was a miserable, damp morning, but twenty-two years at sea had inured Bush to physical hardship and though his feet were numb and his eyes heavy, he took as much notice of it as he might a fly. Not even when his watch was finished did Bush allow his fatigue to overtake him; ingrained discipline and a dogged devotion to duty meant that he would not permit himself rest until he had seen to the innumerable tasks that awaited him. It meant nothing that he had slept no more than two hours in the past forty-eight, not when he had the business of the day to attend to. His only indulgence was sitting down for breakfast, but even then his mind was already on his duties. He had made a lapse in judgement the day before, and he would not do so again.   
  
The men had adapted well to their new sleeping arrangements, and already tentative friendships had formed between some of the sailors of the _Resolve_ and the _Hotspur_. The supplies brought over from the _Resolve_ and the extra hands had seen _Hotspur_ repaired in half the time, and with her new mainyard she was almost back to her old self. Bush was very nearly pleased with himself, but any pleasure he might have received from his accomplishments vanished when he received word that Hornblower had invited him for dinner and excused him from the first watch. He accepted out of obligation to his captain, and spent the rest of the day in perfect terror, hectoring the midshipmen over their tasks until they quaked in their shoes at the sound of his approach.   
  
Much to his relief, Hornblower had invited the officers of the _Resolve_ to dinner that night. The _Resolve’s_ remaining bullock had been slaughtered, and although Bailey had managed to ruin something as easily cooked as beef it was still better than the poor fare Bush was used to. The captain of the _Resolve_, a tall, dour man by the name of Waters, poked and prodded at his food with a general air of misery that might be expected from a man facing a court martial, and his lieutenant, a ruddy-faced Scot named Macleod, was no cheerier. Bush almost felt pity for them, but he knew that bad judgement as much as bad weather had cost them their ship, and so his pity was little more than perfunctory.  
  
They ate in uneasy silence, only speaking up when more food or wine was required. At last Hornblower cleared his throat, evidently uncomfortable with the terse silence that had descended. “I see the men are getting along,” he said, casting a glance to Bush.   
  
“I believe they are, sir,” said Bush, after it was evident neither Macleod nor Waters would respond.   
  
“I’ve been informed you did an admirable job sorting out accommodation for everyone, Mr Bush,” Hornblower said, and Bush paled.   
  
“Your lieutenant is to be commended, sir,” said Waters crisply. “Few men could have accomplished what he did in a day, organising our men, repairing your ship, assigning sleeping quarters — from what I’m told no man was left without a bed. Even gave up his own cabin for us, isn’t that right, Mr Macleod?”  
  
Macleod nodded. “Aye, sir,” he said the near incomprehensible brogue of a Glaswegian. “‘e’s a richt guid fella, throu an’ throu.”   
  
Hornblower gave Bush an odd look. “Have you given up your cabin now, Mr Bush?”   
  
Bush opened his mouth to explain, but Waters beat him to it. “Come now, sir, don’t be hard on the man — he’s only done as you or I would have. And I expect Mr Bush has found somewhere else, isn’t that so, Mr Bush?”   
  
“Yes, sir,” said Bush quickly. He felt his face growing hot. With any luck his sudden awkwardness would be misinterpreted as modesty, and he hid his hands in his lap so no one could see him fidget.  
  
Hornblower smiled. “I suppose it’s only right I offer you my congratulations, Mr Bush,” he said, and Bush wished for death.   
  
Waters raised his glass in a toast. “To the valiant men of the _Hotspur_,” he intoned. “To whom we owe our lives.”  
  
The rest of the evening proceeded more smoothly; there was talk of the war, of battles won and lost, of news from England — the _Resolve_ had been part of a Gibraltar-bound convoy before she’d been lost, and Macleod chattered quite happily about the latest goings-on in Parliament and the Admiralty. Then Waters suggested a game of whist, to which Hornblower naturally agreed.   
  
“_Hotspurs_ versus _Resolves_, I should think, Captain Waters,” Hornblower said, producing cards.  
  
“Perfectly reasonable, sir,” Waters said. “Shall we draw for dealer?”   
  
Bush was not good at whist, but it was easier with Hornblower as his partner. He let Hornblower play as he wished, playing his own cards as carefully as he could, hoping he would not disappoint his captain in this too. He need not have worried; Macleod proved an even worse player than Bush, and in spite of Waters’ talents _Hotspurs_ beat _Resolves_ with ease.   
  
“An excellent game, gentlemen,” Hornblower said as they rose to their feet.   
  
“You are an uncommonly fierce player, Captain Hornblower,” Waters said, shaking Hornblower’s hand. “A true pleasure, sir.” Some colour had returned to his cheeks and he seemed far more lively than he had at the start of the evening. He was an idiot, Bush decided, feeling generous, but a well-meaning one.  
  
They made their farewells and went off to their quarters: Waters and Macleod to Bush’s cabin, Bush to the cable tier. The deck didn’t seem quite so solid this time, nor the rats quite so rowdy. His secret failure had remained secret; Hornblower suspected nothing. Pleased, Bush pulled his oilskin over himself and settled in for a few hours’ rest.   
  
Despite his good mood he slept fitfully. The cable tier was cold and damp and asleep Bush was unable to stay warm. The chill seeped through layers of wool and linen into his bones and his dreams. He dreamt of frozen water, of ice and snow and a cold white sun, and woke shivering to see a tall figure with a lantern standing over him. The light was bright and held in such a way that Bush could not see who it was. Some seaman, looking for a quiet corner to box the Jesuit, perhaps. He could box his Jesuit elsewhere; this was Bush’s corner, and by God he’d kill any man who so much dared as to breathe near him.   
  
“Put that damned light out,” he growled, pulling the oilskin over his head, his muddled mind convinced that if he could not see the stranger, the stranger could not see him. “Go away. Go away, I say!” he barked when there were no sounds of retreat.   
  
At last the footsteps moved away from him towards the companionway and Bush breathed a sigh of relief and curled up beneath his oilskin, desperate to savour what little sleep remained to him.   
  
Sleep, however, proved elusive. It was too cold there on the deck with only a uniform and oilskins to protect him. He could not bear it long before he roused himself and stomped off to the wardroom again, to sit hunched over in a chair, miserable and wretched for lack of sleep, until such a time as his duty demanded his presence on deck.   
  
It was a bleak morning, dark until seven bells. The _Hotspur_ was pitching as she clawed her way north-northwest under a freezing northerly wind, and Bush, in his weariness, felt his stomach pitch with her. A strange sort of hunger gnawed at him, a hunger that he knew would not be satisfied with the morning’s repast. He thought longingly of fresh fruit, the kind he’d only ever tasted in the West Indies: pineapples and pawpaws and mangoes, sweet and firm and luscious with ripeness. Bush was not a sensualist by nature: that he imagined such delicacies now could only mean he was too fatigued to stop his mind from wandering so wantonly. It had been well over three years since he had tasted a mango or a pineapple.  
  
By God, his body ached. Every muscle was aflame in protest, it seemed. He had never been so tired in all his years. He had slept perhaps five hours in the past four days, now, it seemed he was paying the price. He longed for a bed — any bed. Even the leeward side of the binnacle would do; to his addled mind the holystoned decks, white as snow, seemed as soft and inviting as any feather bed. It was a fruitless temptation — his native sense discipline was too ingrained for temptation to pose any sort of real danger to him — but sleep remained on his mind throughout his watch. He decided the minute his watch was ended he would find a quiet corner and kip for as long as he dared, and might well have done so, too, had not Hornblower sent a messenger summoning him to the great cabin not long before eight bells. Any hope of sleep evaporated with those words; Bush straightened his uniform the moment his watch was relieved and went to see his captain.   
  
When the sentry admitted him, he found Hornblower pacing, hands behind his back. His face was grey and haggard — Hornblower did not sleep well as a rule, Bush knew, and no doubt the stormy weather worsened his condition. Bush, who could sleep anywhere, even in a dank cable tier, felt sudden pity for his captain, even as he feared the rebuke that was to inevitably come.   
  
“I have been informed that you have taken up residence in the cable tier, Mr Bush,” Hornblower said, without preamble, stopping his pacing abruptly in front of Bush. “Are these suitable sleeping arrangements for the first lieutenant of a sloop-of-war?”  
  
Panic flashed through Bush’s mind. He had been so careful to conceal his failure, and yet somehow Hornblower had found out. He remembered something Hornblower had said once, about a good captain knowing everything that goes on on his ship, and flushed red. Of course Hornblower had found out. There was no recourse now but to tell him the truth.   
  
“I’m sorry, sir,” he said, attempting to hide his mortification at having been caught out in this manner. “In arranging the quarters for the men of the _Resolve_ I neglected to arrange my own.”  
  
“I asked you a question, Mr Bush,” said Hornblower, a trifle irritated. “Is the cable tier a suitable place for the first lieutenant of a sloop-of-war to be caught sleeping?”   
  
Bush looked at his feet. “No, sir.”  
  
“Then you will cease sleeping there immediately.”  
  
It was an impossible demand. Bush stared open-mouthed at Hornblower, unable to disguise his distress. “Where else can I go, sir?” he asked imploringly. “I won’t put another man out of his bed owing to a mistake I made, sir. There’s only two hammocks not in use, but they’re both so foul not even the ship’s rats would touch ‘em. Cable tier is all that’s left, sir.”  
  
Hornblower thought for a moment. “I cannot have you sleeping there until we reach England,” he said, his tone serious. “It would appear that there is only one solution for this.”  
  
Punishment then. Bush’s stomach turned at the thought. Disappointing Hornblower was awful enough, being punished by him was another. As an officer he could not be flogged, but there were plenty of other ways for a clever captain to punish negligent officers. Perhaps he would be made to teach the midshipmen their mathematics lessons — the thought of standing in front of a handful of youngsters floundering his way through trigonometric problems was enough to make him break out in a cold sweat. He would have fought a battle naked before he ever taught mathematics.  
  
Hornblower’s face was grave, but he was clearly enjoying Bush’s discomfort. “Sir?” asked Bush, nervous.   
  
“There is one bed you failed to take into account,” Hornblower said. “My own.”  
  
Bush quailed. Share his captain’s bed? It was unthinkable. He would have taught the little bastards their mathematics every day for a year before he shared a bed with Hornblower.   
  
“Sir-”  
  
“I daresay it won’t be a comfortable fit, but it’ll be better than the cable tier,” Hornblower continued, a little kinder. “Come now, William. We’ve shared a bed before. No different to that.”  
  
“That was Kingston, sir,” said Bush, stubbornly, hoping that would be the end of the discussion. Kingston had been a wild time; he and Hornblower had not known if they would ever see each other again, and what began with a drinking contest ended in two nights that Bush was neither willing to speak of nor forget.   
  
“Yes,” said Hornblower, a curious look on his face. Then he remembered himself and he sobered. “Don’t make me give you an order, Bush.”  
  
“What will the others think, sir? What of your steward?” Bush asked, changing tack. He would not go down without a fight.   
  
“Bailey? He will think nothing of it. The rest of the men are sleeping two to a hammock. There is nothing exceptional here.” Something in his expression softened. “I can’t have my first lieutenant sleeping amongst the rats.”  
  
A curious realisation dawned on Bush. “It was you, sir, wasn’t it?” he ventured. “With the lantern, last night.”   
  
Hornblower carefully composed his face into a mask of blank neutrality. “Yes,” he said, after a long moment. “When I learned you’d given up your cabin I began to wonder where you’d hidden yourself away. I could not imagine you would willingly suffer the indignity of the midshipmen’s berth; certainly you would not bundle up in a hammock alongside the hands. It is too cold to sleep rough on the deck, and you have your pride: you would not want to be seen sleeping in front of the men. That left only the cable tier.”  
  
“I see,” said Bush, although he didn’t. Hornblower raised an eyebrow.   
  
“Do you?” His mouth twisted. “Do you see why I cannot have you sleeping there? What if it hadn’t been me, Bush? What if it had been Macleod or Waters? What would they have thought of me as a commander? You and all the men on this ship are under my command, I have a duty to each and every one of you. I have a duty to you.”  
  
Bush knew he had been outplayed — all that was left was to end this in a dignified manner. There was no sense in trying to argue; they might fight it out for a handful of minutes but sooner or later Hornblower would remember he held the trump card and would simply order Bush into sharing the bed.   
  
“Aye aye, sir,” Bush said, resigning himself to the fate he no doubt richly deserved. “Is there anything else, sir?”  
  
Hornblower exhaled, as though relieved. “That will be all, Mr Bush,” he said. “I will see you tonight.”


	2. Chapter 2

Bush left the cabin in a daze, half certain he had dreamt the exchange — perhaps he would wake up and find himself still asleep in the cable tier. But the wind on his face was too biting, the ache of hunger in his stomach too real for any of it to be a dream. He would sleep the night in his captain’s cabin, in his captain’s cot. The enormity of the transgression made his head swim. 

He had slept beside Hornblower before, of course, but that had been Kingston. Things had been different in Kingston: Bush had nearly died from his wounds and was desperate to taste life again, Hornblower had been adrift and uncertain in his new role as commander. They had endured so much together — Sawyer, Buckland, the attack on the fort, the Spanish prisoners — that it was only natural that they should seek reassurance in each other. Months at sea without the wholesome company of women stirred strange desires in a man, urges that needed to be satisfied one way or another: that those desires were satisfied over a wild two day period in a locked room in one of the most expensive bawdy houses in Kingston was no one’s business but their own. Those two days had been a mad fever dream of lust and high spirits and when they were over Bush and Hornblower had parted as friends, solemnly swearing to never speak of it again.

Then why should Hornblower bring it up now? Bush did not know, and the not knowing bothered him. For three years he had kept his silence for the sake of their careers and out of loyalty to Hornblower; if the knowledge of what had happened ever reached the wrong ears they would be hauled before a court-martial and face disgrace and humiliation at best. Bush would weather it, as he weathered all things, but it would break Hornblower, of that Bush had no doubt. To be brought before a panel of superior officers and be ruthlessly interrogated until his most intimate secrets were exposed would shatter Hornblower, and to see his captain dishonoured and defeated would break Bush in turn. Bush did not fear many things, but he feared that particular fate above almost all else. So he kept his silence, and trusted Hornblower would do the same. 

He knew Hornblower was ashamed of what had happened: Hornblower had never said as much, but Bush knew it to be true. The evidence was there, if a man only cared to look: it was in the way Hornblower shied from touching Bush, no longer willing to exchange the casual contact they’d shared aboard the _Renown_; it was in the way Hornblower no longer called Bush by his first name, even in private; it was in the way he coloured when he noticed Bush watching him bathe on the deck. So why had Hornblower mentioned Kingston? 

It was useless, thinking in circles like this. The only possible solution had to be the simplest one, Bush decided, and that solution was obvious: Hornblower had brought up Kingston because it was the only time they had ever shared a bed. Still, he was dissatisfied, and no amount of hard work seemed to ease the gnawing worry that lurked in the back of his mind.

He was grateful when the wind picked up around the end of the afternoon watch and a brief squall swept in, the cold rain and rough seas soaking every man on deck. Bush grinned as the _Hotspur_ bucked and pranced like a spirited filly in the seething seas; he loved dirty weather. He was still grinning when Hornblower appeared on the quarterdeck, but his smile faded at the sight of Hornblower’s green face. It would not do to seem as though he were mocking Hornblower’s misery. 

“Good evening, sir,” he said, as cordially as if it was a calm night. 

Hornblower grimaced, his hands settling behind his back in his usual stance. “I was informed you called me to announce you are shortening sail?” 

“Aye aye, sir.”

“Very good, Mr Bush. You may proceed.” 

The men had been drilled and drilled and drilled again by Bush, and now that drilling paid off. Every man knew his station and the actions he must take, and with what seemed like very little effort the great canvases were hauled up and reefed, and the _Hotspur_ eased a trifle in her mad dance, no longer in danger of carrying too much sail. 

Bush turned to Hornblower when it was done and wondered for a moment if it was admiration he saw in those brown eyes. But that was nonsense; Bush was merely doing his duty. 

The wind howled, the canvas creaking as the sails strained under their reefs. The rain was cold and soaking: Hornblower’s dark hair was plastered to his face and water dripped from his nose, and Bush knew he must look no better. He shivered, a trickle of rain finding its way down the back of his collar and down his back. The thought of a cosy cot, warmed by the body of another, no longer seemed so unappealing. 

“I’ll see you when this lets up,” Hornblower said, with a nod to the dark sky, and smiled thinly at Bush. 

Bush shifted uncomfortably. “Aye aye, sir,” he said. There was nothing else he could say. 

The storm died towards the end of the second dogwatch, the clouds clearing away to reveal a waxing gibbous moon high in the sky. The sea was calm now, having spent its rage, and Bush found himself humming as he gathered some things from the sea chest still in his cabin and made his way to Hornblower’s cabin. The sentry at the door looked up at him with wide eyes, surprised to see _Hotspur_’s first lieutenant standing sopping wet and half-frozen in front him, but admitted him without so much as a word. 

Hornblower was still awake, tucked up reading beneath a coverlet of roses, when Bush knocked on the door to his sleeping quarters. He looked up and smiled at the sight of Bush hovering anxiously on the threshold, clutching his nightshirt and housewife to his chest, soaked to the bone and dripping water. 

“Undress and get in,” Hornblower ordered. “It’s a far sight warmer in here than it is out there.”

“Are you certain, sir?” Bush asked. This was a wild breach of protocol, and he knew were it not for the longstanding affection he held for his captain he would be back in the cable tier, sleeping with the rats.

Hornblower set his book aside. “Would you say I am attentive to the needs of this ship, Mr Bush?” 

Bush was caught off guard by the question. “Of course, sir,” he said.

Hornblower fixed him with a hard look. “Then why would you expect me to be any less attentive to the needs of my officers and men?”

Bush could not argue with that. A ship was only as good as the men who sailed on her, and an unhappy or unhealthy crew were as much a danger to the safety of a ship as any storm or enemy vessel. Poor rest led to poor judgement, everyone knew that, and naturally Hornblower would not wish to have a first lieutenant whose good sense was compromised because of a foolish error. 

“No, sir,” Bush answered. Then, feeling bold, he added: “I do wish you’d extend the same care to yourself, sir. You’re not looking as well as you should. Not enough sleep I should think, sir.”

It was a common concern for Bush, who secretly fretted over his captain as he might a wilful younger sibling, but he did not fret without cause. Ever since the battle with the _Félicité_ Hornblower had seemed paler and more withdrawn than he had been in months, and Bush knew he could not have been sleeping more than an hour or two at night. 

“I will sleep all the better knowing my first officer isn’t sharing his berth with rats,” Hornblower said, his tone dry. “And mind you don’t flood my cabin.” 

A puddle of water had pooled at Bush’s feet. He grimaced and hung up his dripping oilskins to dry, along with his hat and jacket, all damp. The cabin was cold, and without his jacket to keep him warm he shivered and rubbed his hands together. 

“Sir, would you—” he began, but Hornblower had already turned on his side in the cot to face the bulkhead, affording Bush the smallest of privacies as he stripped off his wet things and pulled his dry nightshirt over his head. He lay his clothes over Hornblower’s sea chest, unsure of where else to put them. 

“Put out the light when you come in,” Hornblower said, pulling back the covers for Bush to climb in, and so Bush blew out the lantern and swung himself into bed. The cot creaked dangerously as he settled himself on his side, his back to Hornblower, and he lay there very still on the edge of the bed, unable to deny the pleasurable feeling that arose from sharing a bed. 

“You’re frozen,” grumbled Hornblower.

“Sorry, sir,” said Bush. “It was cold. Wind freshened a trifle after you left. Froze my bloody boll—” He caught himself. “My apologies, sir,” he said, shamefaced, and shifted, moving to cast aside the covers. “I’ll get out of bed.” 

“Belay that,” growled Hornblower. The cot swung as he turned over, and then Bush felt a warm body press up against his back, an arm reaching around his waist, anchoring them together. “There, now. You ought to be warmer soon.”

It was much better lying like this, Bush thought happily. Hornblower was pressed against him from shoulder to ankle, his hand warm and heavy on Bush’s stomach. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so safe or secure. Hornblower must have felt it too, because he curled his body tighter around Bush, his breath hot on the back of Bush’s neck. 

“Thank you, sir,” Bush said quietly, realising as soon as he’d spoken that Hornblower was already asleep. Smiling, he closed his eyes and drifted into sleep, Hornblower’s arm a reassuring weight on his waist. 

He awoke to the dim sound of six bells to find the cabin awash in pale moonlight and Hornblower fast asleep in his arms. It was strange to see him so unguarded; in sleep Hornblower still looked so very young — even with the dark shadow of his beard — but the lines of weariness and worry on his face were ill-suited for one not yet thirty and Bush felt a strange sorrow in his breast to see it. He pressed his face into Hornblower’s hair, anxious to provide some small measure of solace, and Hornblower stirred. 

“William?” he asked, eyes shut, voice muddled with sleep. Bush shifted in the cot, intending to get up, but it was impossible to move from beneath Hornblower, who lay sprawled across him.

“Sir,” he whispered, “I should get up. What if I’m needed on deck?” 

Hornblower growled in displeasure and tightened his hold on Bush. “They know where you are,” he mumbled, nestling closer. “Go back to sleep.”

It was the easiest thing in the world to obey and slip back into contented sleep. Morning came all too soon in the form of an anxious midshipman knocking on the stateroom door and enquiring if the first lieutenant was inside. Bush untangled himself from Hornblower and extracted himself from the cot, careful to not dump his sleeping captain on the cold deck. He dressed in the dark, his clothes still damp from the night before, and hurried up on deck for the numbing middle watch.

He did not return to Hornblower’s cabin when his watch ended, not wishing to disturb his captain’s rest, and instead spent the morning in happy idleness, mending his socks and shirts by the light of a horn lantern around the wardroom table. He might have even indulged himself in a pipeful of tobacco had his stock not run out, so good were his spirits, but he consoled himself with a cup of weak coffee at breakfast. If the other men noticed his cheeriness, they were polite enough to not remark upon it. 

Dawn arrived shortly before Bush appeared on the quarterdeck for the forenoon watch, leaving behind it a vivid streak of scarlet on the horizon that dissipated like blood in water as the sun climbed higher. The sea was lively, the wind brisk, the sky a sharp, cloudless blue that made Bush think of his boyhood days in the Mediterranean. It was a good day for sailing, and _Hotspur _seemed to agree. Even with her hull patched like an old coat she cut through the water as with the ease and grace only small ships are capable of possessing. 

Hornblower was cheery when he appeared on the quarterdeck, looking better slept than he had in months. 

“Good morning, Mr Bush,” he said, with something of a conspiratorial glimmer in his eyes. 

“Good morning, sir,” Bush said, biting back a smile. “You slept well, I trust?” 

“I did.” He stepped close to Bush. “As, I trust, did you,” he said in a low voice. Bush met his eyes and nodded. A smile escaped the tight line of Hornblower’s mouth, and in spite of himself Bush found himself grinning too, as though they were no longer King’s officers but rather two boys who’d successfully raided an orchard. Then they remembered themselves and sobered up, and the two mischievous boys sharing a joke once again became the two serious men standing on the quarterdeck discussing the endless technical details of maintaining a sloop-of-war. 

The day progressed smoothly, spoiled only by a squabble belowdecks when one of the _Resolves_ tried to pick a fight with one of the _Hotspurs_, but an emphatic threat from Bush to suspend rum rations for all parties involved was enough to stop any thought of fighting for the day. Rum and tobacco were all that stood between Heaven and Hell to the ordinary seaman, and they knew better than to risk one of the only pleasures they could indulge in. To ensure his point was made Bush also threatened to take any seaman caught fighting and bundle him up in a hammock together with his adversary until they got along, and no sooner had the threat been uttered were the two men shaking hands as if they were old friends. 

Later, over dinner in the gunroom, Bush related the story to some of the other men, who laughed and agreed that it would make a fine punishment. 

“No man likes sharing a bed that small,” pronounced Thatcher, the _Resolve’s_ purser, not looking up from the little book he was sketching in. Several other members of the gunroom nodded in agreement. 

“No man likes being that well acquainted with his fellow,” laughed Wallis. 

Bush thought of Hornblower, and flushed. It had been cramped in that cot — Bush was well built and though Hornblower was lanky it had still been a tight fit for two grown men — but it had been warm and snug, and try as he might Bush wanted nothing more than to lie in that bed again, if only to feel that safe and comforted feeling he’d felt the night before. It was a curious thing to sleep beside someone, knowing that they cared if you lived or died. Bush did not flatter himself that Hornblower held any deep affection for him, but he knew that Hornblower cared for his well-being enough to share a bed, and that meant more to Bush than could be expressed in simple words. Bush had never made friends easily — too concerned with shipboard matters to care for the inane trifles of the wardroom or gunroom — but he fancied that friendship with Hornblower, trying though it could be at times, was worth the friendship of ten other men. 

The moon was full, the night cold and clear. Bush stood on the quarterdeck, humming quietly to himself. The wind in the rigging and the creak of _Hotspur’s_ timbers as she made her way through the dark sea were a soothing lullaby to Bush’s ears. From belowdecks came the faint strains of a fiddle and the distant thump of dancing, punctuated with raucous laughter: the sounds of a happy ship, with a good captain who cared for his men. If Bush had ever been asked to imagine a Heaven, he might have described a scene much like this one, but as no one had ever asked him such a question he gave no thought to the notion. All he knew was that he was very nearly sorry when eight bells struck and he was relieved of his watch. 

Hornblower’s cabin was awash in moonlight when Bush stepped inside. The door to the stateroom was open, but there was no light within; Hornblower was asleep. Still, Bush dared not venture further without confirmation, too disciplined to ever make presumptions of his captain. 

“Sir?” he asked gently, knocking on the stateroom door. There was a rustle of bedclothes and a grunt of annoyance.

“Get in,” Hornblower said, his voice muffled by blankets and pillow. 

Bush undressed in the silvery gloom of the stateroom and hung his outer clothes up exactly as he had the night before. To his surprise, he saw that his sea chest had been brought up to the cabin, his nightshirt folded neatly on top. It gave him an odd pleasure to see his things arranged beside Hornblower’s, but he was too weary to pursue that thought any further and focused instead on undressing. Neckcloth went first, then waistcoat, followed by shoes, stockings, and breeches. Shirt and woolen underclothes were last, and he folded them all up carefully and placed them on his sea chest. As he shook out his nightshirt, the night air cool on his bare skin, he became sharply aware that he was being watched, and turned around to see Hornblower looking at him, as though he were transfixed by the sight before him. 

“Sir?” he asked nervously. He did not know why Hornblower should be watching him with such intensity; it was not as if Hornblower had not seen him naked before. 

Hornblower rolled over to face away from him. “For a moment there I thought — oh, never mind.” 

“Sir?” 

“In the moonlight you looked almost like a statue, I suppose, I don’t know.” Then, with an air of indifference, he added, “I’m tired, forgive me.” 

There was nothing to forgive; Bush felt subtly pleased at the compliment. He was not certain what sort of statue Hornblower was imagining, but it was nonetheless flattering to be compared to one. Perhaps Hornblower meant one of those old Grecian statues, the heroic-looking ones that never seemed to have any clothes on. That would be most flattering indeed. 

Bush held no illusions about his appearance; he knew he was no great beauty, but he knew his strength and rugged looks were attractive to some. He rather liked how he looked; he thought his face an honest reflection of himself. When he looked in a looking glass he an honest, capable man, hardened and tempered by years at sea — all the things he was — and this pleased him. Still, it flattered him that Hornblower should think him more than the rough and unsophisticated man he was, and he almost smiled at the thought of it. He pulled his nightshirt over his head and with a grunt of effort swung himself into the cot, arranging himself with his back to Hornblower’s. 

They lay in silence for some time, listening to the sounds of the ship: the groaning of the hull, the faint merriment of the crew. Finally Bush spoke, unable to keep curiosity at bay any longer. 

“Did you really mean that, sir?” he asked, rolling over. “About my looking like a statue, I mean.”

There was a heavy pause and then Hornblower turned on his side, facing Bush. There was a troubled look about him: a look not dissimilar to the one Bush had seen on that first night in Kingston, when not even the prettiest girls in Kingston’s finest whorehouse could distract him. 

“I suppose I did mean it,” he said stiffly. “You were standing in the moonlight there, and… for a moment it seemed as if you were carved from marble. It put me in mind of some ancient hero: Nisus, perhaps. Pylades. Damon, even.” 

Bush did not know these heroes Hornblower spoke of, but he flushed with pleasure and embarrassment. “Thank you, sir,” he said at last, a curious sort of warmth spreading through his body. Then, feeling daring: “I’ve always thought someone should paint you, sir.”

“Me?” Hornblower’s surprise was so genuine that Bush could not help but smile. 

“Look at you, sir. You’d make a fine portrait, there’s no doubting it, what with your looks…” 

“My looks?” 

It never failed to astonish Bush how blind Hornblower was to his own good looks, but Bush knew better than to make his captain ill at ease by trying to correct him, and stayed his course. “There ought to be portraits of you, sir,” he said. “You’ve a noble face.” Hornblower scoffed at the compliment. “I mean that, sir,” Bush said, stubborn to the bone.

“Noble?” Hornblower laughed. “Look at me. My nose is too long, my face too thin.”

Bush felt a flash of irritation to hear Hornblower’s contempt. “I meant what I said,” he said, refusing to surrender. With all his courage he reached out and cupped Hornblower’s face, gently stroking Hornblower’s cheek with his thumb. “Someone ought to paint you, sir.”

The wry smile disappeared. “You mean that, don’t you, Bush?” Hornblower asked quietly. 

“Yes, sir.”

The room was quiet now; only the creak of the ship and their own breathing could be heard. Bush was suddenly aware of his own heart, beating loudly in his ears. The air hung with the heavy disquiet of the moment as a ship is brought round into the wind, the terrifying moment before she misses stays or makes her tack, and Bush shivered. Hornblower’s cheek was rough with stubble beneath his hand, and without thinking he traced the soft curve of Hornblower’s mouth with his thumb and shifted closer. 

He could see Hornblower’s pale face in the half-darkness, watching him. His eyes were impossibly dark, almost black, and the intensity with which he watched Bush was disconcerting. It was the fearful determination of a man going into battle and Bush felt his heart quicken, acutely aware of just how intimate their positions had become. They were pressed together, breathing heavily, and Bush knew he should leave, get out of the cot before something worse happened, but he could not move. He was caught in a current that he could not escape. He ached, not from the pains of everyday, but from months of desire, of putting his wants aside for the good of the service, and he wanted nothing more than to reach out and draw Hornblower close, but like a bridegroom on his wedding night he faltered at the next step.

It was Hornblower who broke the silence. Hornblower, who with a sharp intake of breath blurted, “Do you want to—?”

“Yes. Yes,” gasped Bush, moving to lie on his back. Hornblower fumbled beneath the blankets and tugged at Bush’s nightshirt, pulling it up above his waist — they had neither the time nor privacy for anything else — and propped himself up on one elbow. “Christ,” Bush swore as he felt those long fingers curl around him and stroke. He threw an arm over Hornblower’s shoulders, holding him in place, desperate for the feeling of another body against his own. 

It was awkward and inelegant in the cot — Bush’s elbow collided painfully with the bulkhead and Hornblower winced when Bush’s fingers dug into his shoulder— but it didn’t matter. The softness of Hornblower’s hand, the warmth of his body, the press of his leg between Bush’s — it was intoxicating, and it was not long before Bush pressed his face into Hornblower’s shoulder and came with a muffled, shuddering gasp. He struggled for breath, unable to move, reeling from the swell of emotion that had swept over him so suddenly. He had never sought, as some men do, to unlay their emotions like so many strands of rope, but as he lay there clinging to Hornblower, gasping like a drowning man, he tried to make sense of the feelings that eddied and swirled around him and threatened to drag him under. There was affection, certainly — that was obvious — but there was fear there too: fear at having given in to the urges he had forsworn, fear at having crossed a line that could never be uncrossed. But greater than that was relief — relief that Hornblower did not regret Kingston, relief that he was willing, even eager, to touch Bush again. 

It was a lifetime until he could breathe again, and when he opened his eyes he found Hornblower watching him with an anxious expression. 

“Are you well?” he asked.

Bush nodded, winded. “Never better, sir.”

Hornblower looked as lost as he was, and Bush remembered how hesitant and shy he had been in Kingston. The marriage bed had not emboldened him in this regard, it would seem, for even now he hesitated before Bush, too self-conscious to be courageous. 

“Would you…” he began with diffidence, and frowned, suddenly uncertain. “Would you touch me?”

“Of course, sir,” Bush said, before Hornblower had a chance to doubt himself, and reached beneath the blankets for Hornblower’s nightshirt. It was wet, and Bush realised with distress Hornblower must have cleaned his hand on it. “Your shirt,” he explained, when Hornblower noticed his hesitation. 

Humiliation coloured Hornblower’s features. “I didn’t know where else to—” he began, but Bush shook his head. 

“It’s alright, sir,” Bush said soothingly. “Let’s get it off you.” 

A weary smile played at the corners of Hornblower’s mouth. “I cannot have my first lieutenant accusing me of uncleanliness,” he said, sitting up and pulling it over his head.

“No, sir,” agreed Bush, helping him out of the nightshirt and dropping it to the deck. He eased Hornblower onto his back and tucked himself beside him, his head on Hornblower’s bare shoulder. He ran a bold hand over Hornblower’s side, relearning the ridges of his ribs, the sharp angle of his hipbone, the soft line of hair on his stomach. Bush waited for a some indication that this brazen exploration was unwelcome and when it did not come he reached beneath the blankets and took Hornblower in hand. Hornblower made a soft noise and closed his eyes as Bush stroked him, almost teasingly slow.

“Faster, damn you,” Hornblower hissed, and Bush obliged, quickening his pace until Hornblower was gasping and clutching at the blankets. His brow was furrowed as if in concentration or pain, and Bush wanted for nothing more than to kiss him slowly and deeply, to distract him further and take him out of himself, but he knew he could not. They had only shared one kiss before, when they had been too intoxicated with drink and sex and each other to prevent it, and Bush still felt shame at the memory of how readily he had accepted it. Touching was one thing — the weakness of the flesh was excusable even as it was condemned — but kissing was far too great an intimacy to be shared between men. Bush had fumbled around in the dark with men before, but he’d never before been kissed by one: not until the moment Hornblower leaned down and kissed him as they lay abed together on that hot and humid night. It had been a mistake, a momentary lapse of judgement, and Bush had vowed he would not be so weak again. 

Hornblower’s breath was coming quickly now, and he’d taken his bottom lip between his teeth. Every muscle in his body was drawn tight, like a cable under too much tension, and yet Bush could feel him resisting his inevitable release, still too caught up in his own mind to find relief. Hornblower turned his heavy-lidded gaze to Bush, and Bush understood the crying need behind that look.

“William,” he whispered, his voice pleading and tender, and Bush knew he was lost. Laws and vows and articles be damned; Hornblower needed him, and he would deliver. 

Lips met eager lips and then Hornblower was kissing him fiercely, all teeth and tongue and desperation, as if he wished to devour Bush, and Bush found himself returning the kiss with the same fervour. For all his phlegmatic temperament, Bush was a man in whom secret passion ran hot, and with his defences lowered at last he gave himself wholly over to Hornblower, redoubling his efforts, as determined a lover as he was a fighter. 

It did not take long before Hornblower arched into Bush’s touch, and collapsed with a soft cry against the pillows, spilling wet and warm into Bush’s hand as relief swept through him. Bush slowed his hand, kissing him gently through it, until at last Hornblower broke away, gasping for air, his expression utterly blank, his mind very far away. Bush kissed his rough cheek then and carefully extracted himself from the cot, going over to the basin and wetting a flannel. Hornblower made no motion to stop him as Bush pulled the blankets back and sponged them both clean. He did not say a word as Bush folded the soiled nightshirt and flannel up together and tucked them in the sea chest painted with the name _Wm. Bush_, he did not speak when Bush returned to the cot and tucked himself alongside, his head on Hornblower’s shoulder. The only indication he made that Bush was not unwelcome was taking Bush’s hand and pressing it against his heart, stroking it gently. It was not much of an indication, but Bush had been friends with Hornblower long enough to know that he often said through action what he could not say in words, and for just a moment Bush allowed himself to believe he was cared for, that he was loved. But it was easy for a man to lie to himself like this, lying next to the warm body of another, and so Bush put the thought away, contenting himself to lie next to his beloved friend for as long as duty allowed it.

He must have fallen asleep for when he awoke he was alone. He dressed quickly in the dark and entered the great cabin, where he found Hornblower wrapped in a dressing gown, standing by the stern windows and looking out to the interminable horizon. His hands dangled limp and useless at his sides, and it was terrible to see them so inactive. Hornblower’s hands were never still; to see them so now could only mean he was lost in his own mind. Bush did not know what it was that absorbed Hornblower so, but even his unimaginative mind could wager a guess at the emotions Hornblower grappled with: doubt; regret, perhaps — certainly shame. It was unbearable to watch. 

“Sir?” he asked gently. There was little else to say.

There was a heavy silence, and then Hornblower turned, a desperate look on his face, and held out both his hands to Bush in supplication. He was so utterly lost that Bush crossed the room and took those long elegant hands between his own and kissed them, risking rejection, risking everything, if only to bring some reassurance to his captain. He looked up, expecting a rebuff, but it did not come; Hornblower leaned in and kissed him full on the mouth. This was not the passionate, eager kiss of before — the sort to make the knees weak and the blood run hot — but something far more tender and bittersweet, and without understanding why, Bush knew it was a kiss of farewell. 

He had never hoped for a future; it was easy for a man to believe in lies in the warm embrace of another, but Bush was too stubbornly practical to ever believe that Hornblower would wish for something more than which they had briefly shared. And yet somehow it still stung when Hornblower pulled away from him at last and stood there, resting his forehead against Bush’s. 

“Bush,” he began, but Bush shook his head. 

“There’s no need for any of that, sir,” he said. “Needs were met, nothing more. We needn’t speak of it again.”

Hornblower nodded, and Bush let go of his hands and stepped away. He tried not to look at Hornblower, tried to forget that for a moment he’d imagined he was loved. 

“William,” Hornblower said, and Bush told himself he imagined a note of sorrow in his voice.

“Nothing to be said, sir,” he said, and then, as a pathetic comfort, he added, “Perhaps in another life.”

Hornblower nodded again, and turned back to the windows, his hands still at his sides. Bush scolded himself for his soft heart and collected his things from where he’d hung them and pulled them on. He could not afford to waste time on sentiment and foolish dreams. Hornblower had told him once that they were King’s officers, not actresses, and yet here Bush was, allowing wishful thinking to get in the way of his duty. It was unacceptable, and he vowed he would do better. 

As he jammed his hat on his head and turned once more to look at the melancholy figure standing by the windows he heard Hornblower speak once more, in a voice so low and quiet he nearly missed it.

“Perhaps,” Hornblower said, more to the sea than anyone else. Bush pretended he had not heard and shut the door behind him as he left, desperate to put a physical barrier between himself and his whirling thoughts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who are curious, Nisus, Pylades, and Damon are all classical heroes famed for their friendships with other men. Nisus is a hero of Virgil's _Aeneid_, whose best friend and lover is the younger Euryalus. Led by Aeneas, they flee Troy with the other Trojans and find their way to Italy. Euryalus and Nisus are renowned for their devotion to each other; in an earlier part of the poem there is a funeral with a celebratory race following it. During the race Nisus slips, losing first place, and trips another man so that Euryalus might win. Much later on, they embark on a mission into an enemy camp, where Euryalus is caught. Unable to go on without him, Nisus returns to try and save his friend, but both are killed. 
> 
> Pylades is the best friend and cousin of Orestes, who is the titular character of the Oresteia. Orestes, on the orders of Apollo, murders his mother for her betrayal of his father, Agamemnon, and as a result is pursued by the Furies who seek to punish him for his murder. Pylades is his devoted companion who follows him and is willing to sacrifice his own life for that of his friend's.
> 
> Damon's friendship with Pythias was held for centuries to be a model friendship. While visiting a city Pythias was accused of plotting against the ruler and sentenced to death. Damon offered himself as a hostage so that Pythias might return home and settle his affairs before his execution. Just as Damon was about to be put to death Pythias returned (having escaped pirates) and both men were released, the ruler having judged their friendship to be worthy of saving.


	3. Chapter 3

Bush had been just shy of ten when his father died. It had been a slow death — cancer of the stomach, the doctor said — and when his death came it had seemed a relief. Bush’s mother had wept, of course, for she had five children under the age of ten to feed and clothe and take care of, but Bush had not cried. He had loved his father, and missed him terribly, but he had merely felt hollow in the days that followed, like someone had come along and scraped out his insides, leaving behind nothing more than a shell. 

He felt that hollowness now, standing on the quarterdeck as the _Hotspur_ wended her way homewards beneath a slate grey sky. Everything around him seemed muted: the sounds, sights, smells of a warship seeming distant and faint; the men of the ship as unreal as actors on a stage. He found himself longing for action, for the thunder of a broadside and the roar of battle, if only to feel alive again, and consoled himself with the knowledge that such a feeling would pass. Sorrow, after all, was just as fleeting and short-lived as happiness, and only a foolish man believed he could cling to either for very long. 

He saw Hornblower only once that day. He was quieter and more withdrawn than usual, his face carefully blank as he listened to Bush deliver his report on the _Hotspur_’s condition. There was a small bruise on his lower lip where a kiss had left its mark, and Bush’s face burned to see it.Hornblower must have noticed the flush in Bush’s cheeks for he stopped talking and touched the mark, turning his head in silent shame so that he might not have to look Bush in the eye. They sat in painful silence for some time, bound by something they could not name, until at last Bush summoned his courage and spoke. 

“Will that be all, sir?” he asked. 

“Yes, thank you,” Hornblower said, still touching his lip. Bush rose and made for the door. “Bush,” Hornblower called, when Bush was no more than a foot from the door.

“Sir?” He could not bring himself to look back. 

“I—” Hornblower began, and for a moment a bright spark of hope leapt in Bush, but that hope died when he heard Hornblower clear his throat. “Never mind. Carry on, Mr Bush.”

“Aye aye, sir,” said Bush, and left, a dull ache in his stomach. 

He wanted to retreat to his cabin, but that was an impossibility; in his eagerness he had ensured the one place he could always retreat to was no longer available to him. For the first time in his time aboard the _Hotspur_ he became aware of just how small and cramped she was. There were few places a man might go for a moment of privacy, even fewer where he might go to nurse a tender heart. Without being conscious of how he made his way there, Bush found himself amidst the cable tiers where he had slept not three nights before. Here, at least, there was quiet — the sound of his approach had sent any idlers scurrying — and here at last he could sink to the floor and put his head in his hands to wallow in his misery without fearing that the men might stumble upon their first lieutenant in such a state. 

He’d never had a friend like Hornblower before. There had been friends, of course — few men go their lives without making a single friend — but their friendship had been little more than the natural camaraderie found between men who work and sleep and eat together for months on end. There had never been a friend for whom he felt such profound affection as he did Hornblower. He remembered the first day they met — how odd Hornblower had seemed, how aloof in manner and how melancholy in appearance. By all rights they ought never to have been friends, too different in temperament and outlook to ever get along. And yet somehow, months later, it was Hornblower who had cradled Bush’s face as he lay wounded on the deck of the _Renown_; it was Hornblower who had visited him in hospital, bringing with him a gift of fruit; it was Hornblower who had kissed him the night before they were to part forever. 

Strange, that of all the things that passed in those wild days the kiss should be the one memory that returned to him time and again, as vivid as though it were yesterday. It was all so clear: the candles, guttering in pools of wax; the sound of rain on the roof; Hornblower, his hair loose and curling around his shoulders, propped up on one elbow, regarding Bush with a kind of fond fascination. Bush had smiled up at him then, and Hornblower had reached out and smoothed Bush’s damp hair from his forehead. And then he’d leaned down and kissed Bush, more gently than Bush had ever been kissed by anyone, and in spite of himself, Bush had returned it. 

And now he had kissed Hornblower for the last time. He rubbed his face and exhaled heavily. Life in the service meant many partings, but Bush had never expected to part from Hornblower in this fashion. He did not know what was worse: to have lived a life never holding Hornblower in his arms, or to have held him for four precious nights and not one night more. 

No, he did know, but the knowing did not ease his heart. He ought to never have slept a moment in Hornblower’s bed, not when each minute was so dear. The memory of the quiet joy he’d felt on waking to find Hornblower asleep in his arms was as bitter as it was sweet, but he could not let it go, not just yet. 

He remained sequestered in the cable tier until duty demanded he return to the quarterdeck for the afternoon watch. If any tears were shed they were lost amidst the lonely dark; the stiff-backed lieutenant who appeared on the quarterdeck ten minutes later wore a face so unyielding it might well have been made of stone. He stood apart from himself: it was not his voice bellowing at the men, it was not his feet endlessly pacing the quarterdeck. He felt nothing, not the bite of the wind nor the sting of the cold — only the dull ache in his stomach reminding him he was alive. Bush was not a man given to peculiar flights of imagination, but if he had been prone to such Gothic imaginings he might have considered himself a ghost, without form or substance, trapped in a purgatory of his own making. 

He ate his dinner quickly, the meal as palatable and filling as paper, and rushed off in search of one of the spare hammocks he had turned his nose up at earlier. They still stank vilely, rotted with age, but he took one to the purser and had it mended and cleaned to the best of the man’s ability and menaced the midshipmen into giving up a portion of their berth. When the second dogwatch ended he had his sea chest sent for and shaved in a small tarnished mirror hung on the bulkhead. He barely recognised his own reflection; this wild, unkempt man was not who he knew himself to be. Since his earliest days as a midshipman he had always taken pains to appear neat in his appearance: the son of a lord might be excused slovenly habits, but the son of a tailor would not be. He rubbed his rough chin and looked his reflection sternly in the eye. It would not do to continue in this fashion, allowing himself to be overruled by sentiment like a lovesick girl. He would do better, if not for his own sake, than for Hornblower’s sake — Hornblower, to whom he owed so much and had repaid so miserably. 

He shaved and dressed for bed, ignoring the nervous young _Resolves_ who eyed him warily. No doubt stories of his fearsome temper had already made their way around the midshipmen’s berth, just as stories of first lieutenants had when he’d been a boy. How they’d laugh if they knew the ogre they feared had a heart just as tender as any of theirs. Bush swung himself into his hammock and pulled his blanket over his head, counselling himself that the next day would be easier.

He dreamt that night: lurid, indecent dreams of Hornblower — the taste of his skin and the strength of his hands, the softness of his thighs and warmth of his mouth — and woke panting and desperate for release. But the realisation that he lay surrounded by snoring midshipmen was like cold water over the head, and with a groan he hauled himself out of bed and dressed in the dark to stalk the quarterdeck until the middle watch began.

_Another life_, he’d said to Hornblower. But what life was there but this one? Bush had no answer; he could scarcely imagine an existence outside the Navy. He had been at sea since he’d been no more than a boy and could not imagine any other life but this. He was not sure he wanted to; he loved the rules and traditions, the hard work, the discipline — he had been made for a life at sea, and did not think he could enjoy any other life. And yet some part of him longed for a life that was different, a life that was his own, unbound from the fate that had been decided for him when he was twelve. A life, perhaps, where he might be free to give affection and receive it in kind.

He shook the thought off like water from a jacket. It was all nonsense, of course. There was no other life but the one he’d been given and there was no sense in longing for something that would never come true. Other men might wish for gold or fame or true love but he would not be one of them. He would not spend his life dreaming of someone who would never be his.

Having resolved himself in this way, Bush threw himself into his work with the fervour only the desperate possess. He did not care that it was the middle watch when all was quiet, there could not be a single moment of idleness, not a single moment where memories and dreams could distract him from his tasks. In a curious moment of perspicuity Bush understood Hornblower and his queer moods — thinking all the time was maddening. He longed for a fight, longed for the clarity of battle, where living and dying became the only two thoughts in a man’s head. So wild and whirling were his thoughts that it took young Orrock reminding him twice that his watch was relieved and not quailing at the look he received in return for Bush to finally remove himself from the quarterdeck.

He breakfasted alone, something about his expression warning off anyone who tried to sit near him. Breakfast was a miserable affair — with as many men aboard as they had food was running low, and the salt beef, though not spoiled, had an unpleasant green tinge to it and a tang that carried even through the thick smear of mustard — but it was the way of the service, and Bush did not think on it long. The life of a man at sea was nasty, brutish, and short, and to imagine it was anything else was foolhardy; though Bush was not a natural philosopher he innately understood that sorrow followed happiness as night followed day — there was consequence for everything, and he accepted that, difficult though it could be. He had been happy for those few short hours with Hornblower, now, it seemed, he was to be unhappy. It was the way of things, and only a fool would try and fight it. Besides, it would pass, as all things did, and life would return to normal — they always did, in one way or another.

He did not have to wait long; the wind picked up sharply after breakfast and by two bells of the forenoon watch an awful November storm had swept down upon them. The wind howled, the sea raged, and it was all Bush could do to keep his footing on the quarterdeck as the storm played with _Hotspur_ like a child with a toy. Hornblower appeared on the deck, seasick and miserable as usual, but his countenance bore something else as well, a dreadful sort of melancholic look that worsened when Bush greeted him with a cordial smile and informed him of the course of action they would be taking.

“Very good, Mr Bush,” said Hornblower. The mark on his lip had deepened to a dark purple, and Bush coloured to see it. Hornblower noticed Bush staring, and ashamed, turned away to walk to the other side of the quarterdeck, but just as he did so a wave struck _Hotspur _hard across the beam, and he stumbled. On instinct, they reached for each other and Bush caught Hornblower as he fell, nearly losing his own footing in the process. Hornblower clung to the collar of Bush’s oilskin as he struggled to find his feet again, his face white.

“No harm done, sir,” said Bush as Hornblower found purchase on the slick deck and stood to his full height once more. Bush’s hand lingered at Hornblower’s waist, unwilling to let him go just yet. Perhaps Hornblower understood, for one hand remained clutching Bush’s oilskin, steadying himself as the ship tossed and reared. How long they stood like that Bush could not tell — a lifetime, a few seconds, it all seemed the same — but at last he released Hornblower and stepped away, refusing to indulge in his weakness. Hornblower removed his hand from Bush’s oilskin and resumed his usual stance, and for all the world it seemed like the moment had never happened at all.

Hornblower did not quit the quarterdeck until the storm eased, some six hours later, and Bush went below soon after to assess any damage that may have occurred. The belly of the ship was abuzz with activity — _Hotspur _had taken on water during the storm, despite her patching, and every man aboard her would be relieved to see England again. The metallic clank of the pumps and the hammering of the carpenters’ mates as they drove softwood wedges into a split seam were an infernal symphony to Bush’s ears, and he was very glad indeed when a messenger appeared, summoning him to the great cabin to make his report as soon as the first dogwatch ended.

He found Hornblower at his desk in his frigid, dark cabin, shivering as he tried to warm his hands over a small spirit lantern. It was clear his oilskin had done little to keep him dry for his clothes were dark with water; Hornblower had not spent the last half hour in the foetid warmth of the lower decks and had not been able to dry out as Bush had. Bush felt a queer twinge of sympathy at the sight — Hornblower’s face was pale and drawn with fatigue and cold, and his attempts to disguise his shivering were not convincing — but like any good first officer Bush did not mention this for fear of damaging his captain’s dignity and delivered his report with the grace and professionalism to be expected of a man so suited to the role of first lieutenant. Hornblower received it with a detached air, his gaze distant and unfocused, nodding his head to indicate his approval but keeping his silence; it was clear he was too cold to expend any unnecessary effort on anything so trivial as speech.

At last Bush finished his report, and waited for Hornblower to speak, but he did not. “Will that be all, sir?” he asked, trying not to fidget. Hornblower nodded, and Bush made to leave, but as he reached for the door he heard Hornblower rise to his feet.

“I wish to God you’d never touched me,” said Hornblower, the pain in his voice dulling any anger that such words might have held, and Bush’s heart broke.

“Sir,” he murmured.

“I wish to God you’d never touched me. I had no notion of this sort of thing until you, could scarcely imagine it, let alone desire it. But you, you touched me, and…” There was resentment now in that voice, and despair too, and Bush turned to see Hornblower pacing before the stern windows, his hands twisting behind his back, head bowed. “You ought to have let me be — why didn’t you let me be? They could hang us for what we’ve done, and they’d have the right of it, too. If we were to pursue this, it would go against everything we have sworn to uphold and protect as officers of the King; you know as well as I that love has no place where duty is concerned — it does not conquer all. There may come a day I must send you to certain death, and God help me, I must do it, no matter how I may feel on the matter. If I am struck down in battle, you must be able to assume command without so much as a second thought for me. We cannot afford to allow our judgement to be clouded by sentiment.” He stopped his pacing before the middle windows, his back to Bush, as though he could not bear the sight of him.

Bush bristled at the veiled accusation. “I do not doubt your devotion to duty, sir,” he said. “Do not doubt mine.”

Hornblower’s shoulders sagged. “I do not,” he said quietly. “But we are not free men, Bush. Our lives are not our own. We might never share anything more than a handful of hours, stolen in the dark of night, and against this we would wager our careers, our reputations, our very lives. And yet I want… oh, but I have always wanted too much.” He laughed bleakly. “It’s folly, don’t you see? It’s utter folly.”

But it wasn’t. Impossibly, hearing Hornblower’s doubts had put Bush’s to rest; he was no gambler — he did not understand the logic of probability and chance as Hornblower did — but even he knew that a slim chance was better than no chance at all. To surrender now, even in the face of such terrible odds, was nothing short of cowardice, and Bush would not stand for it, not when what lay at stake was so precious. He crossed the room and took his place beside Hornblower, as though they stood on the quarterdeck. Hornblower made no acknowledgement of Bush’s presence beside him, and Bush had to restrain himself from reaching out and touching his friend’s shoulder. It would not do to act so rashly, not when Hornblower still doubted his judgement.

Still, he would say what he had to; he was not willing to let this go, not without speaking truly.

“It’s not folly, sir,” he said. “Not to me.”

Hornblower’s face was unreadable as he stared out to sea, but here and there his mask had slipped; Bush could see it in the tightness of his jaw, the firm line of his mouth, the fixed gaze. With dreadful insight Bush understood the torments of the past few days were nothing compared to what Hornblower must have endured: alone, and without the hubbub of a busy ship to distract him. He placed a gentle hand on his captain’s shoulder, all too aware that such boldness might as easily be taken as an act of insolence as one of kindness, but Hornblower turned to face Bush, as easily as a ship wearing round in a good wind, and Bush saw just how dangerously close Hornblower was to breaking.

“I have tried to forget Kingston,” said Hornblower. “Heaven only knows how I have tried! But I cannot. I told myself what happened there was nothing more than a passing fancy, a— a curiosity that required answering. I told myself it would be easier if I wed Maria, that marriage would cure me of this — this _wanting_ — and I might have believed it too.” His voice was soured with bitterness. “But when you touched me again, by God, how you showed me for a liar.”

“Forgive me, sir.” There was nothing else he could say.

“I have tried to do right by my wife, be a good husband, a good man, and yet…” Hornblower grimaced, shame colouring his cheeks. “I cannot forget. I know Kingston meant little to you, and yet to me…” He cleared his throat and looked at Bush, a grim defiance in his eyes, as though he expected Bush to mock him. “You must understand, I did not have anyone to call a friend in my youth — my books kept me company enough, and I had no interest in puerile tomfoolery. The years most men forge associations that will last them a lifetime I spent a prisoner in Spain, and when I won my freedom I had no understanding of how a man might go about making friends. I told myself that Kingston was different because I’d never known a friend like you, because I’d never…” He trailed off.

“Been with a man,” Bush offered.

Hornblower scoffed, and turned his face back to the sea. “Anyone,” he sneered, and then a trifle defensive, added, “I expect you could tell.”

Hornblower had been shy and hesitant that first night, it was true, but Bush had chalked it up to a combination of drunkenness and nerves — if he’d dwelled on it further, he might have reached the conclusion that Hornblower was nervous because he’d never been with a man, but Bush had not pursued that particular line of thought and so he’d never considered the possibility. That it had been Hornblower’s first experience of anything… Bush wondered what he might have done differently had he known and quickly concluded it was for the best he hadn’t known; any tenderness he might have lavished on Hornblower would have been unnaturally forced and demeaning for them both. No, better that it happened as it did, where tenderness had sprung not out of some sense of obligation, but out of genuine affection.

“I couldn’t tell, sir,” said Bush. 

If Hornblower was caught off-guard by this, he kept it well-hidden. “I see,” he said carefully, but Bush knew him well enough to tell that he was embarrassed for having revealed so intimate a secret. “You must think less of me, now.”

“There’s no sin in innocence, sir.”

Hornblower’s mouth twisted. “How old were you?” 

“Fifteen, sir. But it didn’t mean anything. None of it has ever meant anything, not until you.” He reached up and took Hornblower’s half-frozen face between his hands, turning it towards himself, and Hornblower leaned in to the touch, his eyes closed. The mask had slipped: here now, before Bush, stood a man tormented and afraid, trembling from cold. “I do not regret Kingston. I do not regret you. Sir—” He took a steadying breath. “You are the best man I know, sir. There is no one I’d rather serve under: if I was given the choice between serving as flagship captain to Lord Nelson and serving here as your first lieutenant, I would choose the _Hotspur_ a thousand times over.” Hornblower laughed lightly at that, his eyes still shut, but Bush glared at him regardless. “I mean that, sir. It has been the greatest honour of my life to serve as your first officer. It has been a greater honour still to be your friend.”

Hornblower opened his eyes, that familiar determined look once more in them, but this time Bush could see the uncertainty there too. 

“I do not want to wait for another life,” Hornblower said softly. “I do not want to live my life regretting what could have been if only I’d been brave.”

Words were not enough to explain the swell of feeling that rose within Bush: passion and tenderness, fear and resolve, they were all emotions too great for him to express, and so he did the only thing he could.

“Sir,” he breathed, as soft as an endearment, and with all his courage, leaned in and kissed his captain. 

Hornblower tensed up in surprise, too startled to return the kiss at first, but when Bush deepened the kiss he allowed it, and tentatively began to kiss back. But then he broke away and took a jerky half-step backwards, breaking free of Bush’s grasp. 

“No,” he said, shaking his head. 

“Sir?” asked Bush, sick with terror.

“It — it isn’t right,” said Hornblower, wringing his hands in desperation. “I cannot force my will on you like this. I cannot take liberties with your devotion.”

Bush caught Hornblower’s hands, stilling them between his own. “You do not force your will on me,” he said gently, stroking those long elegant fingers that he’d admired for so very long. “I want this too, sir, don’t you see?” Hornblower wavered, desire and diffidence warring in his expression, but Bush’s mind was made up. “I want this,” he promised, and pressed his lips to Hornblower’s. 

He’d meant it as a gentle kiss, one to reassure Hornblower of his devotion and loyalty, but Hornblower made a soft noise of pleasure and Bush knew he was lost beyond all reason. He let go of Hornblower’s hands, seizing his friend by the collar and hauling him close. It was a heady thing, how easily Hornblower surrendered to the kiss, how he yielded beneath Bush’s touch, his self-control ebbing away as the kiss deepened and he allowed himself to be lost in it. Bush kissed him fiercely, his own self-restraint long gone, and clung to Hornblower as a man might cling to ratlines in a storm. He pawed at Hornblower’s jacket, pushing it from his shoulders, and Hornblower shrugged out of it, allowing it to fall to the floor before reaching up and cupping Bush’s face, his thumb brushing over Bush’s cheek as he returned the kiss with an ardour that left Bush giddy. It was an impossible, wondrous thing to be held this way and kissed with such fervency, and Bush ran his hands over Hornblower’s shoulders, feeling the damp linen and wool and the warmer skin and muscle below, and it was too much; he wanted to touch Hornblower — touch all of him — and all this clothing was frustrating. His hands were shaking with need as he found Hornblower’s waistcoat and began to unbutton it; like a man dying for lack of water his only thought now was the slaking of his thirst, and it preoccupied and filled his mind until he could think of nothing else but the feeling of Hornblower’s skin beneath his hands. He had never known need like this, never wanted something so badly before, and Hornblower wanted it too, for his clever fingers were now working away at Bush’s neckcloth, blindly wrestling with the tight knot. They were both struggling for breath, kissing clumsily as they tried in vain to focus on two things at once, but Bush did not care. It felt like madness — it felt like a dream — and only the warmth of Hornblower’s mouth and the cool buttons beneath Bush’s fingers reminded him that this was real, that he was stood in the great cabin, kissing his captain as he undressed him, and at that last thought the cold reality of what he was doing washed over Bush, and he broke the kiss, releasing Hornblower. 

“Bush?” asked Hornblower, confused, but Bush shook his head, too lightheaded and weak to make any sense. His heart was racing as though he’d raced from the orlop to the maintop and back, and he fumbled about for support, his knees going out from under him. “Easy, man, easy,” said Hornblower, catching Bush before he could stumble and easing him into the cabin’s only chair. “There, now. Are you well?” 

Bush could only chuckle at the absurdity of it; a half hour ago his chief concern had been the repairs required to ensure the _Hotspur_ remained seaworthy — a moment ago it had been trying to divest his captain of his clothes. As if thinking the same thing Hornblower glanced down at his half-unbuttoned waistcoat, seeing it for the first time, and blushed hotly. “I see,” he said, embarrassed but amused, and when he looked at Bush again there was an oddly satisfied smile on his face. He reached out and stroked Bush’s cheek with the tips of his fingers, and Bush caught Hornblower’s hand in his own and brought it to his lips. He lightly kissed the knuckles first, before turning the hand over to brush against the soft skin of the wrist, lingering over the spot where the faint pulse of Hornblower’s heart was strongest, and when he pressed his lips against it Hornblower inhaled sharply. Fearing he had gone too far, Bush unhanded Hornblower and tried to rise from the chair, but Hornblower put his newly freed hand on Bush’s shoulder and holding him fast, artlessly straddled him. 

“Sir,” protested Bush, too preoccupied with the sensation of Hornblower in his lap to effect any kind of serious objection.

“Quiet,” ordered Hornblower, and leaned down to kiss Bush tenderly, silencing any further protest that might have been made. It was not right or fit or proper to kiss his captain like this, and Bush knew that if he’d had any wits about him he ought to have stopped this lunacy before it ever started, but he also knew that if given the chance to start over he would have not changed a thing. It was utterly subversive of discipline to be seated like this beneath his captain, and a part of Bush baulked at the notion of it, yet still a greater part of him revelled in the transgression, as he sensed Hornblower did. It was like a miracle that Hornblower should want to be kissed by him, that he should want to kiss Bush in return, and so swept away by passion was Bush that he gathered Hornblower in his arms and drew him closer still. Hornblower made no objection; his own hands were wrapped around Bush’s shoulders, one arm anchoring them together, the other hand gripped tightly in Bush’s hair, keeping his head tilted upwards. It was all too much, sitting there with Hornblower wrapped around him, and Bush felt so adrift that he wondered distantly if he’d slipped the cable at last. But no, he wasn’t dead; the weight and warmth of Hornblower’s body was real enough, as was the sudden heat that bloomed between his legs whenever Hornblower rubbed against him. He was hard in his breeches, as was Hornblower, but neither of them cared, too content to do anything but kiss and touch and feel — for too long they had lived lives of loneliness and deprivation, never knowing a gentle touch or a kind word, and now that the tender affection they had craved for so long was within reach they surfeited themselves with it. They would pay for this indulgence in time, Bush knew, but for once in his life he found he did not care; there were some things in life worth any price. Happiness, as warm and golden as sunshine, blossomed within him, and he smiled as Hornblower kissed him. 

At last Hornblower drew away, and looked down at Bush with the same serious countenance he wore on the quarterdeck. But his hand still stroked the back of Bush’s neck and he did not move from Bush’s lap, and so whatever severity he meant to import with his expression was lost. Bush beamed up at him, too happy to speak. 

“This is not to be an everyday occurrence,” warned Hornblower, as stern as a schoolmaster. “It will be irregular at best.”

“Indeed, sir,” said Bush, grinning stupidly. His chin felt raw and his thighs ached from bearing so much of Hornblower’s weight, but he was too satisfied to care. 

“And you cannot expect to win my favour in this way. I cannot and will not be seen playing favourites. Whatever my attachment to you, it will not interfere with our professional association.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

Bush knew Hornblower would not play favourites; if anything, he would be harder on Bush now than before, and Bush welcomed it — he was a man who enjoyed order and discipline, and who enjoyed working to an exacting standard. He could never respect a man who played favourites, not even if the favourite was himself. 

Hornblower frowned. “We must be careful,” he said gravely, and gone was Bush’s smile at those words. “If anyone were to catch wind of this… if my wife…” At the thought of Maria his face crumpled and he swallowed hard. “She must never know of this. It would break her heart.”

Bush felt a sudden pity for Mrs Hornblower. He knew she loved her husband — albeit in a clumsy, smothering manner — and he could not begin to imagine the heartbreak a woman might feel when she learned she was not enough for her husband, that she would never be enough, and for no better reason than that she was a woman.

“We will be careful, sir,” Bush promised, touching Hornblower’s cheek. “For everyone’s sake. Besides,” he added, “Your good lady has nothing to fear from me. She is secure in her position; only she is capable of bearing you children or taking your name — it is she, not I, whose name will be by yours in the history books. A mistress might want for wealth or children or your name: I want for nothing more than to be your friend, sir, in whatever capacity you may require.”

Hornblower sighed and rested his forehead against Bush’s. “I am not worthy of your loyalty, Bush,” he said. 

There was no sense in trying to correct him; Bush had been familiar with Hornblower long enough to know that it was impossible to change Hornblower’s opinion of himself. 

“It’s not a question of worth, sir,” he said, nudging Hornblower’s long nose with his own. “My loyalty is yours.”

Hornblower nodded and pressed a quick kiss to Bush’s lips before remembering himself. He cleared his throat and straightened up as much as he could, still seated on Bush’s lap as he was. “We should return to our respective duties, Mr Bush,” he said, and just like that he was the captain again. But there was a kindliness in his words that had not been there before, and it pleased Bush to no end to hear it. 

“Very good, sir,” he said and released Hornblower, who climbed off the chair and pulled Bush to his feet. There was a shared smile and a quick readjustment of breeches, and then Hornblower picked up his jacket from the floor and pulled it on before doing up his waistcoat. The room suddenly seemed very cold and dark, and Bush shivered, no longer warmed by Hornblower’s body. Rain was still drumming on the skylight, and Bush realised he would soon be standing watch on the quarterdeck in that wretched weather. He straightened his neckcloth; physical discomfort was a small price to pay for the pleasure of the last half hour. 

“So we are committed to this course of action, then,” Hornblower said, cutting into Bush’s thoughts. 

“Aye aye, sir.”

Hornblower nodded gravely. “It will be a tricky thing, this. No margin for error: if either one of us fails we will be dashed on the rocks before you can say Jack Robinson. And we cannot allow this to interfere with our duty. We must be vigilant; if discipline should suffer in the slightest way we must call it off.”

“Of course, sir,” agreed Bush. 

“Then we are in accordance.”

“Yes, sir.”

It was as solemn as any oath Bush had ever sworn, and he reached out and pressed Hornblower’s hand. Hornblower looked down at their joined hands and a faint smile played over his mouth. 

“You do know, of course, Mr Bush, that I cannot have my first lieutenant sleeping with the midshipmen?” Hornblower said, and Bush’s heart sank. 

“Not this again, sir,” he pleaded. “I had nowhere else to go.”

Hornblower was doing his very best to look cross, but it was not particularly convincing, and Bush tried not to laugh. “I will not have you sleeping there again tonight,” he said, releasing Bush. “Report here at the end of the first watch. You can share my cot until we reach England, are we clear?”

“Aye aye, sir.”

“And stop grinning like an idiot, you aren’t meant to be enjoying this.” But Hornblower himself was smiling now, and so Bush merely saluted. 

“Aye aye, sir,” he said again. 

“Oh, dismissed,” grumbled Hornblower, too fond to be truly annoyed, and Bush obeyed, still grinning as he closed the door behind him. 

Outside of the cabin the realities of life aboard a warship reasserted themselves. He had not had a chance to eat since the morning, but he had no choice to content himself with dry biscuit wheedled from the cook; he did not have the time for a proper meal. There were still a great many things to be done before the start of his watch —reports to be heard, inspections to be made — and Bush was reminded once again that much of life in the Navy was little more than cleaning up after messes. He was almost relieved when it was time to bundle up and return to the quarterdeck; rain or no rain, the fresh air was a welcome relief after time spent breathing in the stench of two hundred men. He was grateful, too, that it was dark — Hornblower’s rough face had rubbed his own raw, and there would no doubt be questions. That was something they would need to take into consideration, and as Bush reflected on it he felt that same warm happiness that he had felt earlier. There was an undeniable pleasure that arose from the thought of kissing Hornblower again, and though Bush knew as well as any man that nothing in life was certain the fact that Hornblower wanted to kiss him again pleased him to no end. The thought carried him through the long, cold watch, and he struggled to look serious when his watch was relieved and he was free to return to Hornblower’s cabin. 

Hornblower was asleep when Bush entered the stateroom. His moral courage nearly failed him at the realisation, some part of him clamouring to be away and not impose on his friend. And yet he would not; he had made a promise and would keep it. 

“Sir,” he whispered to the darkness, standing by Hornblower’s bed. 

The cot creaked as Hornblower rolled over. “Bush,” came his voice, soft with sleep, and Bush reached for him in the dark, finding his hand and gripping it tight. “You’ve come.”

“Yes, sir.”

Hornblower squeezed his hand. “Your hand is cold.”

“A cold night, sir.”

“It’s warmer here.” It seemed to Bush that there was hope in Hornblower’s voice, and that hope sustained him and gave him courage. 

“I left my things in the midshipmen’s berth,” he said apologetically. 

His hand was squeezed once more. “Never mind that,” said Hornblower. “Come to bed.”

Bush let go of Hornblower and hurriedly stripped down to his shirt. “Sir?” he said, when he had set his things on the deck.

“Come here,” Hornblower said, and Bush did, fumbling in the dark to find the edge of the cot and with a grunt hoisted himself in. Hornblower was on his side, facing the wall, and cautiously, Bush settled himself behind him, just as Hornblower had the first night, but he did not reach out, unwilling to be bold.

“Is this alright?” he whispered. 

Hornblower grunted. “You could at least put an arm over me,” he complained, and Bush obediently wrapped an arm around Hornblower’s chest. Hornblower responded by grasping Bush’s hand and shifting closer until they were pressed together from head to toe.

“Better, sir?” asked Bush.

“It will suffice,” said Hornblower drily, and Bush hid his smile in Hornblower’s shoulder. The fabric was rough beneath his cheek and Bush realised Hornblower was still in his shirt. Oh, God, the nightshirt. It was still tucked away in Bush’s sea chest. He would have to clean it tomorrow and return it with great apology. 

“I’m sorry, sir,” said Bush, appalled at his forgetfulness. 

“You remembered,” said Hornblower, archly. 

“Sir, I—”

Hornblower sighed. “Never mind the nightshirt,” he said, and squeezed Bush’s hand to reassure him. “Better that I have you here than it.”

“Yes, sir,” said Bush. “Goodnight, sir.”

“Goodnight, Bush,” said Hornblower. 

It had been a long day, and Bush was exhausted, but he did not want to sleep, not just yet. A strange and astonishing thought had come over him: in all the years Hornblower had been his friend he had never once considered that the loyalty and duty he felt toward Hornblower might be returned. It was a bewildering notion that Hornblower should care enough to look after him, but the evidence was there; after all, Hornblower had been concerned enough with Bush’s welfare to see to it that he did not have to sleep in the cable tier, and cared enough about him to even share his bed. It frightened Bush to think his fondness for his captain might be returned — he, who had so little to offer — and wondered if Hornblower felt the same way. Perhaps he did, perhaps he had been fond of Bush for a very long time too: Bush remembered the fear in Hornblower’s voice when he’d called out to Bush after the battle of the _Renown _— had he cared even then? Bush did not know, and he did not need to know; there were some questions that did not require answers. It was enough that they should end as they were now, with Hornblower beside him and somewhere in the wild, uncertain future, the promise of tender affection to be taken and given freely in return. 

It was enough. 

**Author's Note:**

> As an aside, I combed through my local library and I could find very little on the day-to-day life of first lieutenants so I genuinely have no idea if they stood watches but for the purpose of this story, they do, because I have an entire spreadsheet detailing where Bush is and when over a several day period and by George I’m not going to rewrite this. So forgive the liberties I have taken and understand that while I strive for historical accuracy I may not always succeed (in fact I almost always certainly fail given that the biases that inform our daily lives make it nigh on impossible to accurately depict life in the past, &c. &c.) Any sailing accuracies are my fault, again I do strive for accuracy but quite frankly I may well make a hash of it. Pretend I know what I'm talking about!


End file.
